


nexus

by DrSchaf



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Sexual Content, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-08 14:57:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11648955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrSchaf/pseuds/DrSchaf
Summary: He's very determined if he sets his mind on something and, apparently, the bloody lines of the cross he wears on his own arm as well are... part of some plan to calm himself down. Connor guesses. He's not actually sure about anything anymore, not even the current topic.





	nexus

Connor breathes through the pain and focuses on Murphy fiddling with the sleeve of his bathrobe, eyes down and shoulders hanging. He looks like a kicked puppy or - he looks like he was the one jumping from a rooftop, not the other way around.

The thought alone makes his blood rush, pumping it against his various aches. Connor huffs, stomping down on the feeling and angling towards his brother.  
  
“Yer still in pain?” Murphy frowns. “I'm gonna go look for the nurse, yeah? She should've been back-”  
  
“It's fine,” Connor cuts in, reaching out to clasp his shoulder. “She has more important things to do, I'm sure.”  
  
“I doubt that.”  
  
Connor flexes his fingers, digging them into the rough fabric of the bathrobe. “Murph.”  
  
Murphy sighs, looking away. “Fine, that wasn't fair. Doesn't mean I have to accept that they're letting ye sit here in the fucking hallway for hours.”  
  
“Well, it's not just me sitting here, no? We have to stay for a while anyway.”  
  
Deflating under his fingers, Murphy glares about. “Fucking Russians,” he says eventually, inciting an old need in Connor to tear the world apart to lay waste to any reasons putting that weight on Murphy's shoulders. Obvious even since before: it's impossible. For all intents and purposes and definitely not for the lack of trying, he's unable to shield Murphy from all of it, and this time, his own wounds took a rather harsh toll on him, making him lose his ability to find appropriate words to get Murphy back on his feet.

Deeds it is, then.  
  
“C'mere.”

Frowning, Murphy looks up and ducks his head when Connor spreads his arms, but he comes closer nonetheless, wrapping his arms around him with care.

To take this kind of comfort from him, Murphy must be shaken. Saving the information for later, Connor rubs Murphy's neck and lets him stay close for as long as he likes, thoughts drifting in lazy circles around Doc saying he'd come by soon, around the smell of smoke lingering on the bathrobe, around the smell of fear coming from Murphy, dried sweat and dried blood and no home to get back to. Connor grits his teeth and ignores the pain in his ribs, holding on.  
  
When Murphy steps back, his nose is wrinkled and there's a half-grin on his face, and Connor is quite sure he doesn't want to know what's coming next. With a fatalistic nod, he listens to Murphy informing him that he's reeking, and when Doc finally arrives, he finds his wounds don't ache as badly anymore.

*

“Dunno.” Murphy shrugs and leans back against the cushions, bumping their shoulders. “It _was_ my idea, would be stupid to backtrack now, wouldn't it?”  
  
Connor hums and takes a swing of his beer, and then he can't find a place to put it down. Sighing at the chaos, he balances it on his thigh.  
  
“Also, we're homeless.”  
  
Connor snorts. “Yer saying that's one of the reasons ye wanted to bring Rocco in? That's heartless, Murph. I'm impressed.”  
  
Murphy boxes his leg, splashing beer over their jeans and the couch. Pretending to be offended, Connor grins at him until it's clear Murphy won't grin back and his own whithers down to a confused smile.  
  
“I didn't mean it,” he offers.  
  
“I know. It's the truth, though. Not that he wouldn't have let us stay here otherwise, but I didn't want to take the chance.” Murphy shrugs again, voice soft. “Suppose I'm selfish like that.”  
  
“Come on, that's hardly the only reason ye wanted him in. He's our friend, he can be good and, in case ye've forgotten, I was the one who didn't like the idea in the beginning, and ye don't see me moping around because of it, do ye?”  
  
“Yer not really the moping type.”  
  
Connor glares at Murphy missing the point, then he empties his bottle and lets it drop without care now that it's empty. “I wasn't convinced then, but I am now,” he says firmly, blinking when Murphy bumps against him and doesn't move away, inching his fingers closer to the cross on his arm instead. “Murph. Is this even about our housing situation? Or the lack of it.”  
  
It's obvious Murphy's mind is elsewhere, he doesn't even seem to notice the pattern he's drawing on his arm. “Yeah,” he says belatedly. “I just don't like the idea of depending on him. Not cause it's _him_ , but because it's someone other than us, ye know.”  
  
It shouldn't come as a surprise. Murphy has always been the one clinging to the idea of independence - the whole idea of coming here was his, but still Connor finds himself unable to say anything of significance until Murphy snaps out of it with a shake of his head, and when he looks over, there's a smile on his face again.  
  
“Suppose we'll manage,” Murphy says, nodding.  
  
Nodding back, Connor reaches for another beer, and somewhere between burning a hole in the carpet and Rocco coming home bringing food, Murphy's fingers leave his arm as quietly as they came.

*

Rocco nurses a beer, switching between raising the bottle to his mouth and raising the hand with one less finger to his mouth. It's not a good sight, and Connor is glad Rocco keeps sitting in the corner of the room, now that they finally stopped shouting at each other and started brooding instead. At least the quiet discontent he broadcasts gives Connor enough reason to look away and focus on Murphy, feeling the corners of his mouth pull down.  
  
It's almost too quiet now, and while Connor finds he doesn't want to cut through the silence, he's not sure he'll manage to stand either, with the flaring hot throb of both the bullet and the iron burning away at his thigh. Still, he's got to try. Murphy sits like a statue, and while Connor wouldn't say it out loud under any circumstances, he knows Murphy isn't as good with pain as he is, getting all quiet and blank-faced with it instead of pushing through.  
  
Or maybe it's the other way around, maybe Murphy's way is the better way. Maybe _Rocco's_ way is the best way; yelling, drinking and then mourning. Who the fuck knows.  
  
Murphy stubs out his umpteenth smoke, face pale and the arm not pressed against his side shaking, and Connor finally gets his arse moving and pushes up with a grunt, hopping the two steps until he's at the table and in front of Murphy's weary face.  
  
“Murph.”  
  
“Mh.” Murphy frowns, focusing somewhere on his shirt. “Yer not supposed to be standing,” he mutters, and then his frown gets even more intense, almost accusatory.  
  
Connor scoffs and with one hand, he grips the back of the nearest chair while he spreads out his other, swaying on one foot. “C'mere.”  
  
It doesn't take long. Half a frown later, Murphy angles himself in, mindful of his arm, and Connor holds on, grateful for the extra stability and ungrateful for the clammy, cold skin under his palm. Ignoring Rocco watching them, Connor breathes through the pain and breathes Murphy in, close and rather unpleasant and _alive_ , and he only lets go when Murphy steps back, hand lingering on his shoulder.  
  
They look at each other, and Connor feels something settle in his chest, some kind of worry he couldn't overcome just by seeing his brother being okay, not by feeling it under his hands. It's the connection he needs, and then Murphy nods back, tired and slow, and guides him back to the couch.  
  
When he's finally sitting again, Connor clears his throat and cranes his neck to look over at Rocco. “Is there any chance ye've got something edible lying around that doesn't come in a can?”

Rocco lifts his eyebrows and shakes his head like he's pitying him for even asking. “None.”  
  
Connor looks on, exhausted, bloody hungry and in need of at least two vitamins to overcome this shitshow of a wound, and he's ready to open his mouth to go on complaining, then Murphy plops down next to him and sighs like an old man.  
  
“I have you know that I'm injured, too. I have a _war wound_.” Rocco nods. He looks past Connor and empties his beer while he glares over the rim. “Fine. But don't say I never do anything for you guys.”  
  
He leaves, and Connor follows his line of sight, curious as to what changed Rocco's mind.  
  
Murphy looks like he's dozing, head against the backrest and eyes closed, but the tension radiating off him doesn't ease, and Connor decides to let him be. They breathe in silence until Connor finds he could do with a doze as well, leaning back and blinking at the ceiling, not surprised when he feels Murphy's fingers against his cross again. It's calming somehow, a nice contrast to the pain spreading out from his thigh, cold fingertips soothing the need of his body to break out in a sweat.

At least until the door opens again and Rocco marches in, dropping several pizza boxes and talking shit. Connor listens with half an ear and keeps Murphy in his view, out of the corner of his eyes. It's puzzling. He wasn't aware Murphy knew the tattoo by heart, he certainly never saw him retracing his own, but now Murphy keeps his eyes closed and when Connor looks down, he sees Murphy's finger following each line without fail, even the dimensions seem to fit.  
  
It's a bit eerie and also comfortable, and Connor waits without moving until Murphy stops, eventually, and he's free to lean forward to claim a pizza.

*

It doesn't smell, it positively reeks of whatever Rocco is in the process of burning instead of cooking back in the kitchen, making Connor's nose itch and joining the itchiness of Murphy's fingers brushing against his cross, again. While talking a mile a minute. For the last _hour_. Murphy isn't actually waiting for him to contribute to the conversation, he just blathers on about anecdotes he not only heard at least twenty times, but partook in most of them too - it's fine, it really is. Best Murphy lets out his spare energy like this instead of being nervous and jittery later on, when they'll hopefully come face to face with Yakavetta and his dogs.  
  
Connor leans back against the cushion and lets his arm stay where it is, blinking up at Murphy bending in an impressive arch to even reach it. He's very determined if he sets his mind on something and, apparently, the bloody lines of the cross he wears on his own arm as well are... part of some plan to calm himself down. Connor guesses. He's not actually sure about anything anymore, not even the current topic.  
  
“Connor.”  
  
“Aye.”  
  
“That was a question, ye know,” Murphy says, scooting on the armrest to achieve a better angle for his glare. “Why aren't ye listening?”  
  
Connor sighs, craning his head to try to see what Rocco is up to now that racket in the kitchen died down. “'m hungry,” he says.  
  
“Yeah, I know. But we're prepared, I guess we can't be more prepared than we already are. We know what to do. Rocco as well. And we know how to get in and out-” It goes on like that. Connor nods and hums in the appropriate places, stomach grumbling not just because he truly is hungry. It's unlike Murphy to worry this much, and it's not their first action either, which means Murphy has a bad feeling about it, and Murphy's bad feelings never bode well.  
  
They've been over it more than enough and he can't think of anything they forgot to include in their plans, so Connor tries to shove his worry away until, slow but steady, Murphy's fingers wander off to his upper arm. Connor looks over, seeing Murphy focused on something on the couch and not on his arm at all, still going on about precautions and prayers and guns and whatnot.  
  
It tickles in all the wrong ways. Tracing the tattoo - he can live with that. Murphy losing focus to a point where he's unaware of his own behavior - not so much. With goosebumps, Connor keeps looking at him, just out of the corner of his eyes, until Murphy's fingers reach up to the fabric of his shirt and Murphy doesn't stop there either, fingers ghosting ever upwards, right up to the edge of it and almost at his neck.  
  
Connor reaches out, heart in his throat. “If ye don't have a good feeling, say so. There's got to be a reason yer worried and I'd rather discuss it instead of listening to ye talking yerself raw.”  
  
Murphy blinks at his hand and Connor's around it like the whole concept of having a hand is foreign to him. Then he shakes his head and squeezes Connor's shoulder before he pulls away and slides down to sit on the couch properly. “Dunno. I can't put my finger on it or I would've told ye already.” He pulls a face, looking right and moody again.  
  
“That's helpful,” Connor says, nodding and earning a blow to his shoulder. He grins, snatching at Murphy and holding him in a headlock until they're decently grappling and everything is fine again, crisis averted and goosebumps disappearing.  
  
Two hours later, they leave and when he breaks Murphy's wrist, he's sure it's only happening this way around because Murphy knew and couldn't put it into words, and instead of reassuring him, he's now helping his brother punish himself. The crack haunts him as bad as the yell, and he soaks it up, promising himself to remember what he did and what he won't forgive himself.

*

The door falls shut behind Noah and Connor simply sits for a moment, trying to get his head back in order - in order to help Murphy get his head back in order. There's no word he can think of appropriately describing the shitfest of their last execution, and he half-wishes for all of it to be another dream.

He'd never dream about hurting Murphy and not waking up in the process, though. It's real.  
  
Connor stands, wiping his sleeve over his face to clear away at least some of the blood clinging to his skin. “C'mere,” he says, too unsure to spread his arms more than the slightest bit. He broke his _wrist_. He didn't take whatever concerns Murphy had seriously - or seriously enough to poke him for more details. Murphy must know all of it could've been avoided if he- and Roc—  
  
Murphy heaves himself up on shaky legs, wrist cradled against his chest and tear streaks a stark contrast to the blood on his face. “Ye keep doing that, ye know,” he says quietly, and Connor's hearts stutters, but then Murphy is already in his space, first swaying and then clinging to him, one arm hanging limply at his side.  
  
Humming to hide his surprise - he doesn't know he keeps doing anything - Connor wraps his hand around Murphy's sticky nape, holding him tight and swallowing against his turtleneck where it's choking him when Murphy clenches his fist in the fabric on his back. Breathing is second-rate. He'll manage, there are more important things to consider.

Turns out, Murphy isn't keen on finding an appropriate time to stop.  
  
They stay in place until Connor's nose twitches with Murphy's hair tickling it, dark spots dance in front of his eyes and Murphy's breath stutters against his shoulder. Every now and then, there's a quiet and painful sound underneath, and Connor hurts with it, deep down. “Come, now,” he says, feeling awkward, and ushers Murphy back to the chair. He goes willingly, mouth hard and eyes wet and averted, and then Connor isn't any longer hurting deep down, it's everywhere, expanding and increasing until it settles into that hollow space between the beats of his heart.  
  
Connor turns, clenching his fists against the sudden onslaught, and fills water into a bowl. Then he gets a towel and sets out to clean Murphy's wounds. The ones hidden beneath a thick layer of dirt and blood, the fist of a brute connecting one too many times with his brother's face, leaving marks that will surely stay for weeks on end. Maybe they're going to scar.

He doesn't know what to do about the wrist.

*

They invade towns like a plague, littering the streets with bodies. Noah doesn't show emotions- Noah doesn't have emotions. He's ruthless and diligent, he's the best man for the job, and Connor can't stop thinking about what would happen if he died.  
  
Only in an abstract way, pondering what their life would look like. If Murphy would stop accommodating, stop being quiet. If he'd go back to how he used to be; loud and sometimes rash, emotions always running high, from anger to joy to being kind. If he'd, maybe, sit further away again instead of drifting closer without ever stopping.

It's small things at first; scooting closer on a bench in whatever nasty diner they find themselves in, kneeling next to him in church until their elbows brush, fingering whatever tattoo is within reach as soon as Noah is out of the door. Somewhere along the way, Murphy threw all pretense overboard and went straight to town outlining the various pictures on his skin, familiar and comfortable against the cross on his arm, somewhat alarming against the Holy Mother on his throat.  
  
At night, Murphy turns on his side and sleeps with his front towards him, and that's the last straw, the bloody straw that breaks the camel's bloody back. All his life, Murphy slept on his other side. All his life, Connor took the bed to the right and Murphy faced the other way, and now Noah rushes them through the country on a killing spree and Connor doesn't know any longer which of the new features of Murphy's behavior he'd be glad about or which he'd ache over if they left for good. There's no way to find out with Noah doing what he's doing, and once, Connor finds himself tumbling down the road to madness and a thought enters his mind, grinding his entire self to a halt.  
  
What if Murphy died as well. If he was the one to die instead of Noah, then. Then—  
  
Rushing over, Connor grips Murphy by the neck and breathes in his face, mind stuck in horror. “I'll never think of it again,” he says, _vows_ , and closes his eyes against it all; the sudden wetness, the burning, the bile in his throat and the memory of bones snapping beneath his boot.  
  
“All right,” Murphy says lowly, bowing forward until their foreheads lean against each other. He radiates the same sort of quietness he's done for weeks, months- as if he has an inkling of an idea of what he's talking about. _Thinking_ about.  
  
Connor opens his mouth, trying to force out words that will not come, and then he stares at Murphy, too near to make out details and breath all over his face, willing him to understand how crucial it is for him to not fucking die. He doesn't have words for the sheer possibility, and all of a sudden, he remembers he's been here before. This isn't the first time he loses his words thinking about how much he loves him, how much they love each other. It's so crucial, he thinks maybe that's even the reason for being wordless. It wouldn't change anything to say it out loud and if, then certainly not for the better.  
  
“Connor,” Murphy says.  
  
Like nothing else in the world. That's how much. He hopes Murphy knows.  
  
With shaking legs, Connor steps back and goes to clean his gun, turning his back to Murphy so he doesn't have to see him prepare for an execution that will leave him breathless with a silence he can no longer control.

*

Chaos.

He already had to reload twice, and judging from the curses Murphy hisses out behind him, he's not faring too good either. Noah is who fucking knows where, bustling about with his gazillion guns trying to herd the fuckers into their line of sight - the lines of their guns - and failing so completely that they've been at it for way too long. It's a shootout now, and that wasn't the plan and it's not silent, either. It's a miracle the police hasn't shown up yet.  
  
Overall, he's about done with every last godless man in this disgusting rathole they call their headquarters, and above fed up with every scantily clad woman he sees ducking and running for the door, storming out into the cold with barely any clothes on. As of now, he's counted four already, and he's only facing in one direction, with Murphy at his back, there have to be even more around. Fucking clowns and their despicable views of women. Good fucking riddance. If they'll ever finish here, that is.  
  
Noah runs past, ducking behind a corner, and Connor aims, giving him cover when he herds one of the bastards through the doorway.  
  
“Here!” Connor grits his teeth, shooting the second the man is thick enough to actually look in his direction. He goes down with a wordless thud and Noah draws his second set of guns, stomping off again.  
  
“Yer good back there?”  
  
Connor fires at a man rushing past, missing by a long shot. He grunts. “Having the time of my life. Ye?”  
  
“Shit fuck-” He hears Murphy fire in quick succession, then he groans, drawn out. “I'm down to the lasts rounds.”  
  
“Wait.” Connor fumbles for his pocket without taking his eyes off the room in front of him, arm heavy and burning from the strain of it. Not long and it'll start shaking, and then he's going to be fucking useless. His fingers brush against the bullets and he curls around them, reaching out behind himself. “Here, I got spares.”  
  
Murphy's gloved hand bumps against his own and they struggle for a moment, then he takes the bullets with a vague grunt, and a second later, Connor shoots again, widening his stance when one of them tries to sneak around the open door. There are too many.  
  
He's unsure about bringing it up, but someone, soon, will have to. Five down on his side, around the same on Murphy's, Noah got a few before he started chasing them, and still they're coming at them from every possible direction. Bad fucking thing when one plans for a five-man group and gets at least three times that much.  
  
“Murphy.”  
  
“Aye.” Murphy collides with his back, swaying them. “I know.”  
  
“We should-” Connor pulls a face. “Let him know—”  
  
Noah rounds the corner, and a woman opens the door on the other side of the room, face white and not even wearing a bloody shirt. She goes down.  
  
Noah stands, looking down at her, and then he rushes on.  
  
“The _fuck!_ ”  
  
She's gurgling, he didn't even outright kill her.  
  
Connor twitches forward and something hits his back— Murphy, suddenly yelling. The girl coughs up blood and curls into herself, and a man runs past, obviously fleeing and not giving either of them a glance. Fleeing from Noah, who runs after. He's smiling, and he too doesn't spare them a glance.  
  
“Connor!”  
  
The thinness and urgency of it snaps him out his haze and Connor whips his head around, seeing Murphy ignoring his side of the room. He grabs Murphy's arm and yanks him behind the doorway.  
  
On the floor, the girl stops struggling.  
  
Connor presses his back against the wall, unable to look away and unable understand the words underneath Murphy's yelling. The adrenaline rushes through him almost strong enough to numb his senses, and Connor knows several things at once, all of them unimportant except one: they must leave. Then, as an afterthought: If Murphy dies here in this house of horrors, he'll have to shoot Noah, too.  
  
The harsh grip on his arm makes him focus again and his hearing sets back in with a rush, and Murphy presses against his side so heavily he almost falls over.  
  
Out of nowhere, a man rushes in from the right, gun raised and pointed ahead at Noah who shoots at him, herding another guy in who— aims at them. Connor shoots, missing. The other guy shoots at Noah, and Murphy shoots at someone, pressed back against the wall in a fucking trap. They're _trapped_.  
  
One guy goes down and another hustles past their corner, and Connor takes Murphy by the arm and drags him out.  
  
The gunshots keep on coming, and Connor doesn't stop until they're out, Murphy screaming at him without struggling for a second. Around a tree, Connor stops, taking a stuttering breath. He can't bring his fingers to unclench, they're fast around Murphy's arm.  
  
“It's not right!” Murphy yells over the racket, sharp noises echoing through the open door and broken windows. He's not struggling.  
  
The anger - he'll take it. If that's what it takes, it's his fault and he'll be glad about it. “Five more minutes, then we're off.”  
  
Murphy shakes, clamping his mouth shut around a sound Connor doesn't want to know about, and then he rips his arm away. From the swing of it, Connor stumbles after, losing orientation when his back slams against the tree and Murphy crowds in, holding onto _his_ arm. There's blood all over him and his eyes are bright and wet, and he doesn't look in pain. Not physical. Connor breathes and licks his lips, tasting blood. Must be from his glove. Or from an arterial spray.  
  
In the end, it doesn't take five minutes. The noises die down and a figure steps out of the house, back straight and chin down, and Murphy rushes out a breath of relief. Then he turns away, aiming for their car.  
  
He doesn't see the grin on Noah's face or the way he lights his cigar. He's content, he's high on it, manic with it and not a bit righteous like he should be.  
  
Connor lowers his gun, something heavy sitting in his stomach, hard like a stone even though he's glad Murphy didn't see. They've won and the Lord wasn't the one guiding them. It was someone else entirely, some— Before he's sick, Connor swallows down the bile and follows Murphy back to the car.

*

They're back at the motel, clothes bloody and rosaries on the table, and Noah goes off to wherever. Frankly, he doesn't care. What he cares about is Murphy's face, pale under the dirty brown of dried blood, eyes bright and darting through the room. And he hasn't even _seen_ \- he still knows, somehow.  
  
Connor swallows around a lump. “C'mere.” It grates out of his throat, a miracle Murphy even understands him, but he's in his arms in a second. Or the other way around. Murphy's arms come up around his neck, squeezing so tight he has trouble breathing. “All right,” he says and winds his own arms around Murphy's back.  
  
They stay like that until Murphy makes a quiet sound, high and cut-off before its time. It sounds a bit like a whine and Connor frowns, worried, and suddenly the hug changes. The quality of it, the urgency and firmness, changes to something softer. Murphy stops holding him tight and rests his arms lightly on his shoulders, turning his face to breathe against his neck.  
  
The worry changes too, and Connor rubs his hands over Murphy's back in a way he hopes is soothing, goosebumps rising on his neck and something curling in his belly that isn't worry any longer. Not by a long shot, not when Murphy drops his arms and Connor has to grip Murphy's neck to hold him close because that thing in his belly insists on it like a rising tide of hot and sick.  
  
Murphy breathes against him, fingers dancing over his shirt and slipping underneath to the skin on his back.

The tide tastes like dread now, not warm but _hot_ , and Connor angles his lower body away, quickly reaching down to adjust where he's being sick and— depraved. There's horror in his insides, and Murphy shoves his hand under his shirt and then the other, too, pushing up until it's around his throat and Connor is forced to either make a scene and pull Murphy's attention to the wrongness of it— Murphy won't see, surely.  
  
The shirt comes off and Murphy is back at once, shoving his face against his throat and possibly feeling the breath of relief he rushes out because in this position, Murphy is unable to see the state he's in. He'll simply hold onto him until Murphy feels better. It's going to be fine. Connor licks his lips and grips Murphy's neck again, digging his thumb in when Murphy's fingers brush against his side - which is fine - but then Murphy curls them and Connor twitches all the way down where he _shouldn't—_ Murphy smells like dried blood and sweat and he mumbles against him, and Connor can't hear him over the rush in his ears.

He'll have to leave for the bathroom, find some excuse. But for Murphy to cling to him like that, fuck, he must be hurting. What is he supposed to do.

Murphy's knuckles press against his side and Connor sucks in a breath, hand sweaty against Murphy's neck, praying to anyone who'll listen for Murphy not to notice how fast his breath has become. The knuckles skim to his front, low on his belly, and Connor is unable to hold Murphy close when he bends to look— “It's nothing,” Connor rasps.  
  
Murphy rolls his forehead against him, voice quiet, “Doesn't look like nothing.”  
  
Time stops, or at least he hopes it does. Then he'll never have to _explain._ This is the worst trespass - after this day, these events, Murphy seeking comfort, this kind of reaction. It's - abominable. He should burn for this.  
  
Murphy moves, and Connor stares ahead, hoping nothing will show on his face when Murphy steps away, nothing of the dread and the hunger— Murphy doesn't move away, he just moves, and Connor is caught off guard enough that he misses the moment Murphy pops open the button of his jeans, and then his fingers slip inside already. Tracing, almost absentmindedly, just like he did with his tattoos. First on his arm and then on his neck and now—  
  
“Doesn't _feel_ like nothing,” Murphy says, gently brushing his fingertips over the head of his cock.  
  
Everything about him is frozen, even his thoughts. Connor opens his mouth and then he can't close it again, helpless when Murphy draws back and instead of drawing off entirely, he pulls down the zipper and comes back, pressing his forehead against his shoulder like he's watching his own hand.  
  
“Murphy- Murph, I'm-”  
  
Murphy drags his palm down the underside of his cock and curls his fingers, locking them around him. “Doesn't feel like nothing at all,” he says, breathless and not letting go of him, and Connor gets lightheaded under the touch, breath coming fast and fluid building up on the top, surely it will spill over soon, right over Murphy's hand— Which lets go of him to resume the brushing, drawing lines like he's mapping out the scenery, following veins and circling the rim of the head, the touch familiar and fucking shocking in the new context.  
  
Heart in his throat, Connor turns his head, rubbing his cheek against Murphy's hair and thrusting forward the smallest bit. “Does that make ye feel better?” he asks, voice thick and Murphy must know with what.  
  
With a hum bordering on a whine, shy and high, Murphy stalls for long enough to pull Connor's gaze down too, looking on when Murphy smears over the tip with gentle fingers. “Ye too, Con?”  
  
Watching himself leak against Murphy's hand, Connor twitches, gripping Murphy's neck firmer. “Makes me a lot of things, Murph,” he says, pausing to swallow. “But if ye go on like that, I don't think I can take much of it before I-”  
  
Murphy draws off and Connor is unable to look at his face in case he's going to lose it right there and then, want surging through him so fiercely he's almost sick with it, pairing with sadness and loss and horror—  
  
“Let's wash up.” Murphy rounds him and pulls his turtleneck over his head, then he hops on one foot to get out of his shoes. Connor watches, feeling slow and unsure enough that he jumps conclusion even though Murphy did say 'let's' - but he can't mean it. The idea is absurd. It wasn't an option, ever, and he never wanted, did he. Fuck. Fuck, fuck.  
  
Murphy sheds his clothes without looking at him, hands slowing before he shoves down his pants and after, he curls his shoulders forward, hand on his chest and— cock hard.

Something in his brain snaps and Connor wants to jerk forward just when Murphy glances up, lip caught between his teeth with a look like he thinks he hesitated for just a second too long.  
  
“Yer coming?” he asks quietly and this time, Connor does rush forward, shoving his jeans down before he's even out of his shoes.  
  
“Did ye think- Fuck, Murph, ye thought I wouldn't? Ye thought I'd only have ye touch _me_?” He rakes his eyes over Murphy's body, the way he curls into himself, shy and unsure and frying his fucking brain. He shoves his boots off with his toes and struggles free of the tangle at his feet, herding Murphy through the bathroom door. “Murph, say something. Or turn on the water. Turn it on, aye?”  
  
Murphy does.

Connor stalks after, focusing on Murphy under the spray and on the flush spreading all the way down from his chest to his cock, flushed and needy. “That just because ye touched me?” he says, climbing in and sliding the door shut. The water rushes over his head, fogging the cabin, and Murphy does nothing besides biting at his lips and looking down at the tiles. “What is it?” he asks with a lump in his throat, suddenly sick with worry that he misinterpreted. Nah fuck, he sees the arousal just fine— He needs to feel it. On his tongue- fuck.  
  
“I just.” Murphy shrugs, wrapping his arms around his chest. “Guess I came on pretty strong and it's rather sudden, so ye don't have to. Just cause I. Doesn't mean you have to - tolerate this just cause I can't seem to keep sane without touching ye in one way or another.”  
  
Connor looks at him, throbbing everywhere. If he had let him, Murphy would've done it sooner. Maybe going right from his neck and the Virgin Mary to his jeans - or maybe before bed, when he would've been down to his briefs. Murphy would've sneaked his fingers under the fabric and felt around, down and over him and inside— “C'mere,” he grunts, opening his arms.  
  
It's wet and hot, and Murphy's cock presses against his own, slipping against his belly. The water turns red with blood that isn't there's, and Connor grips him close, tasting Murphy's mouth, his moans, until he forgets everything else he knows.

*

They're not even dry and Murphy paces, hair sticking up every which way and mouth turned down while Connor hovers at the table, trying to come up with a reason to put off cleaning his guns.

“Today, earlier, it was such chaos, and ye _did_ help me. It helped.” Murphy huffs a huge breath, and Connor tries to live through his blood freezing.

“Ye don't have to explain,” he says, averting his eyes when Murphy twitches towards him without making contact. “Was fucked up. The shooting. 's only natural ye'd need some comfort.”

“God fuck.” Connor's eyes shoot up, and Murphy presses his fist against his chest, right where his rosary usually lies. Not now, after. It's on the table, next to his own.

“It was horrible. Awful,” Connor rushes out. “Something like that is bound to get in yer head. In mine, too. Doesn't mean- it's not a sin then, Murph, it's just-”

“The executions. I don't want to keep doing them,” Murphy says, telling it to the floor. He licks his lips, looking up and lifting his shoulders in a shrug without lowering them again. “That's the sin. There's nothing righteous about it, hasn't been for a while.”

He's out of his depth. “Aye. All right, that's good.”

“Is it? Cause I don't want to touch ye until-” Murphy looks down again, face pale and so close Connor smells the heat from the shower on his skin, fogging his brain. “'m just gonna say it and ye've to promise not to be angry.”

“I'm never angry with ye,” Connor croaks.

“Aye. Okay, ye asked me whether touching ye makes me feel better and... it always did,” Murphy says in a small voice. “I always wanted to but I didn't - it wasn't on purpose.”

Connor steps forward, fingers flexing. “Ye don't have to, Murph. It's fine how it is.”

“Just think ye should know what ye get yerself into.”

There's a beat of silence, heavy and sort of warm.

“I don't,” Connor admits with a shrug. Then he lowers his voice. “Ye want to tell me? Should I guess?” Murphy stands still, shoulders curling forward. Connor rushes out a breath. “Ye didn't mean to do it,” he says slowly, mind reeling. “Ye didn't mean to do it before, either— Murph, I don't know what ye want me to say. I can't look into yer head, I don't know whether yer telling me ye lost control and touched me without meaning to or whether ye didn't want to do it at all.”

Murphy gives him the stink eye. “I had my hand on yer cock, Connor. Course I meant to do that. I was talking about - never mind.”

“Ye tell me now, and then ye tell me the other thing yer sitting on.”

Murphy lifts his chin, still glaring but without any heat behind it. “Sometimes I'm losing focus when I'm stressed. Ye make it better.” He glances down, thank the Lord, so he's unable to see the heat rising up in Connor's cheeks. “There are two things that I want and I won't let ye talk me out of one of them. First is that I want to stop. No more executions that have nothing to do with the Lord's will or plan.” Murphy nods, glancing up for a short moment. “And after - and I say after cause I know ye don't want to continue either, I saw yer face. So, after, when we're wherever and not stressed or, or in pain or...”

The silence stretches on, and Connor feels him struggling, unable to help and for once, unable to understand the meaning of his words without Murphy saying them. It's an unusual and foreign feeling, and Connor blinks against it, or maybe against the wetness in his eyes. “We'll stop. We don't have to, ever again,” he says to say something.

Murphy deflates, pressing his fist against his chest. There's no scar, his wrist healed nicely, and still it's the same movement like in the weeks after the break. Frowning, Murphy rushes it out without pausing, “Afterwards, I'd want to touch ye. Take my time about it without the worry always fucking tainting everything. I'd want to- Con, this isn't to make me feel better, not only that. I want to, I _want_ -”

“If it's not only to make ye feel better, will ye want me to touch ye as well?”

Murphy stares, incredulous.

“I need to know if yer talking about a quick fumble in the dark. If this is gonna happen when one of us had too many beers or if ye'd want me to- If ye want it like this, like we always are, and the rest on top.” Connor stops, a bit mortified, and sways forward when Murphy steps into his space.

“Like that, the last one. When we have a place for it and time and it's fucking morning or Sunday or the middle of the day. After work or church or dinner, I want it then. Touch ye without any blood on ye. 'n kiss ye too, and all that...” Murphy finishes awkwardly.

They're sharing air without touching and Connor pulls his mouth to the side, glancing at their rosaries. “We wouldn't be harming anyone. Not like we do now.”

Murphy follows his gaze and takes a step back, shoving his hands in his pockets. He still looks so pale in the shitty light in this shitty motel room that Connor twitches after him, fisting his hand in Murphy's shirt, right at the place he presses his fist all the time. Over his ribs, his heart, the place the rosary lies against.

He opens his mouth, planning to reassure him, and then his mind decides on his own, shutting his body down to a whisper. “Earlier, I was so sure ye'd die. I felt like I knew it was coming and then I thought - but ye must know I wouldn't - but I thought I'd have to shoot Da. For bringing us in that situation, for putting that look on yer face.”

“Connor-”

“And if that's not a sin, I don't know what is.” He takes a stuttering breath, pulling Murphy closer by his shirt without looking at his face. Then he lets go and smooths the wrinkled fabric, laying his hand flat against Murphy's chest. “I always loved ye like that and having ye love me back can't be wrong.”

Pressing back against his hand, Murphy sways forward, breathing against him. “We have to tell him.”

Connor curls his fingers. “We'll tell him right now.” They stay in place until his breath comes slower, quieter, and Connor feels clear again even though Murphy isn't touching him anywhere. He doesn't have to, he never did it all the time. Fuck, he loves him, he loves him so much. “Come on,” he whispers, pushing Murphy back towards the door. “Let's find him.”

*

Rushing through the streets and trying to avoid the streetlights lining them, they find Noah in the second bar in town. Not only on the run from the police anymore— what state are they even in? He can't remember for the life of him, but he remembers the faces of the men shooting at them mere hours ago just fine, and being out here is more than unwise, but it can't be helped. Noah has to know - _no_ , actually. They have to tell him to be free. It's not for him, it's not a good deed to inform their father. It's selfish and right.  
  
Connor swallows down his bitter feelings and reminds himself that nothing happened. Murphy is hale, the need to shoot anyone should be nonexistent from now on. Everything is fine. Even though Murphy stares at the wall like he's inspecting the various bottles lined up on the shelves with a little too much interest.  
  
“Da,” Connor says, clearing his throat.  
  
Noah turns on his stool, a glass of something brown in his hand and an unsurprised look on his face. Of course. _Of course_. Connor opens his mouth and Noah says, “I will leave for Ireland three days from now.”  
  
“What?” Murphy stares at the back of Noah's head. The incredulous frown on his face raises an itch in Connor to reach over and smooth it out with his thumb.  
  
“It's my wish for you to accompany me. If you want that as well. If not, I would leave you with my contact information, in case you have need of me.”

Connor opens his mouth again, and Noah fixes him with a stern look and a sharp shake of his head. “Don't decide now. We'll talk in the morning.” He turns back to the bar, raising his glass in a salute to no one in particular. “Boys.”  
  
They look at each other.  
  
“Night, then,” Murphy offers, making it sound like a question. Connor takes him by the arm and they walk outside, dragging their feet a bit.

On the street, they share another look. “So,” Murphy says, “I want to say that was unexpected, but somehow it wasn't.”  
  
“It wasn't,” Connor agrees, frowning and starting back towards the motel. Murphy follows, bumping against his shoulder. “He expects us to think it through,” he says at length, quiet even though the street is deserted except for them. Two Saints, murders, criminals, brothers. Terrorists, maybe. He'll have to look up the definition.  
  
Murphy says nothing, but he walks a bit closer. Their arms brush, out of sync, and Connor's heart beats wildly with it.  
  
Lovers.  
  
“Maybe we can go after him later,” Murphy says when they close the door behind them, and for a moment, he looks like he's trying hard to convince himself he'll consider the option. “After we had a bit of time,” he adds.  
  
Connor glances up, sucking air through his teeth.  
  
“To adjust to our new life,” Murphy stresses with a red face. “Yer such a prat.”  
  
Connor drops his eyelids, and then he decides differently and drops his clothes instead. All of them, without much hurry. It's night and he's tired and he'll have Murphy close. Everything else can come after.  
  
“Con,” Murphy says thinly, standing unsure like he didn't hear a word of his earlier speech.  
  
“Aye, maybe we'll follow later.” Connor nods, goosebumps rising in the cold. Different things rise as well, curling like lava in his veins just from knowing Murphy can see. “Now touch me.”  
  
Murphy glares and grins at the same time, looking like a tool. “I said 'after'. Weren't ye listening?”  
  
Connor shrugs, hiding the sting and flopping down on his bed, trying to sprawl nonchalantly. “Suppose I'll have to do it myself, then.”  
  
Turns out, the sight of that gets Murphy going like nothing else. At least until Connor decides to do some mapping on his own. With his tongue.

*

“Where we're going to go?”  
  
Connor blows smoke towards the ceiling and pushes his head back against Murphy's ribs to get a look at his face, failing when Murphy shoves him away with a sticky hand.  
  
“Stop crushing me and help me think.”  
  
“Need a lot of help with that?” Connor grins and rolls up to put out his smoke, then he lies back down, this time with his ear against Murphy's chest. When Murphy doesn't react to his teasing and instead keeps looking down at him with a complicated frown on his face, Connor exhales softly, fighting the urge to close his eyes and let himself be lulled to sleep by the steady thrum of Murphy's heart. “What is it?”  
  
“He said he'd want to talk in the morning,” Murphy says, pulling a face at him. “It's morning, Connor.”  
  
“Barely,” Connor insists and rubs his eyes, blindly reaching out to feel for the blanket and landing on the sticky part of Murphy's hip instead. The one he held onto, earlier. Too thick to fit his fingers around them both, his hand had slipped and Murphy had done all the work then, sitting on his thighs like he should've done for years.  
  
“I can't think when ye've got thoughts like that,” Murphy says and it comes out so hoarse Connor glances up at once, seeing his pupils dilate.  
  
“Does it bother ye?” Connor asks, feeling his eyelids droop with both exhaustion and the hot thrill running through him, blood boiling all over again despite the lack of sleep, the shooting, the talks, decisions— and the two rounds they already finished.  
  
Murphy huffs out a quiet breath. “It doesn't _bother_ me,” he says, swallowing. “It's just that I thought...”  
  
“What, Murph?”  
  
“Well, I said later, no? Cause that's what I wanted. Want. Not to hurry and keep getting distracted. Fuck, I want a whole day of not leaving the bed and taking my time with ye and not worrying about a thing besides who's gonna sleep on the wet spot.” He reaches down, suddenly, and presses his fingers against the cross on Connor's arm. “Now there's fucking haste and I'm so bloody tired I can barely feel my toes, and Da's gonna want a decision from us any moment now and-”  
  
“'m sorry,” Connor rushes out. A bit ashamed, he glances down and grips the blanket to cover them up. “I'm sorry, ye distract me more easily than I suspected.”  
  
Murphy sniffs. “I'm gonna use that later, ye know.”  
  
Connor tries for a grin and forces his heartbeat down. “I figured. Now - what do ye want to tell him? Should we tell him anything at all? He doesn't need to know more than us not coming with him.”  
  
There's a beat of silence. “Ye don't want to either, no? Yer not saying it cause ye think I don't want to.”  
  
Connor shrugs against him, turning his arm to give Murphy better access to the tattoo. “I think,” he says slowly, “I could want to, some day. I don't want to yet, not before we- If we're going home, I want to do it with a clear conscience.” He licks his lips, a funny feeling in his chest while Murphy keeps drawing patterns on his skin.  
  
“Ye mean repenting for our sins?”  
  
“Aye.” Connor looks up, searching for any sign that Murphy is misunderstanding again. He finds none, just a small smile with the ability to raise his heartbeat like he hasn't seen the same smile thousands of times in his life. It's ridiculous.  
  
“Quit it,” Murphy says.  
  
_Entirely_ ridiculous.  
  
“It's settled, then,” Connor says with a slow grin and wills himself to get a grip again. The sun isn't so much a pale shine any longer but gearing up fully, and Murphy is right; Noah will want an answer soon. “If ye want to tell him specifics, ye have to tell me where ye want to go. It's all the same to me.”  
  
“Is that so.” Murphy lifts his eyebrows, and suddenly he snorts and covers his face with his free hand.  
  
“What?”  
  
Murphy peeks down at him from behind his hand. “I was about to say something so soppy my teeth are rotting just thinking about it.”  
  
“Oh?” Connor lifts his head from Murphy's chest and draws himself up on his elbow. “Tell me.”  
  
“Nah.” Murphy grips the back of his neck nonetheless, revealing his burning face in the process. “Is a bit much.”  
  
“If ye whisper it, no one will know.”  
  
Murphy pulls him up and drags a kiss over his cheek, talking against him. “We're good, after? We're telling him we're gonna follow later and we keep it vague, and when we're ready, we go home?”

“Aye.” Connor pauses, breathing against him. “Now tell me.”

Murphy does, lips brushing against his ear and voice down to a whisper, “Doesn't matter where we go. Yer my home, I don't care for the rest.”

They don't tell Noah until a few hours after.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea why ao3 keeps insisting to put the date of the draft as the date I published it. If anyone knows how to change that, please share your wisdom :D


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